Perfect Wedding Page 2

  “Here’s your next guest, Doctor,” Miss Grindthorpe said brightly.

  Marjorie thought, guest? That was a wee bit precious, in her opinion, and her initial evaluation of Dr. Hagendorf dipped a trifle lower. Having been born into the lower echelons of a society that placed a good deal emphasis on class distinctions, she’d become an expert at hiding her inner thoughts as a child, so she didn’t indicate her opinion by so much as a blink of her eye.

  “Miss MacTavish?”

  “Aye,” Marjorie said, allowing a note of suspicion to color the word. Since he was still holding his hand out to her, she shook it, and firmly, too, as she tried her best to act as if she was as good as anybody else in the world, even though she knew she wasn’t. No matter what Loretta said, and no matter that she’d been living in the United States for three years, where everyone was supposed to be equal. Marjorie knew it wasn’t so.

  “I understand Mrs. Quarles bullied you into visiting me today, Miss MacTavish, but I’ll try to make the experience worthwhile. Or at least,” he added with a laugh, “not excruciating.”

  Surprised and faintly gratified, Marjorie returned his smile. She did so tentatively, still worried lest he get in under her guard and make her reveal more of herself than she wanted to.

  The door closed softly behind them, and her fear returned in a rush. She was alone with the alienist! Then she scolded herself for being a gudgeon. This man wouldn’t hurt her. He was a professional doctor, for sweet mercy’s sake.

  “Please, Miss MacTavish, take a seat.”

  To Marjorie’s surprise, he gestured at a chair facing his desk. She’d always assumed that the crazy person was supposed to lie on the couch while the doctor sat at its head in a chair set so the patient couldn’t see him, smoked a pipe, and took notes. She sat, cautiously glancing around the office.

  It was a cheery place, with windows that had their curtains pulled aside, inviting the sunshine—the nonexistent sunshine today—access to the room. This also surprised Marjorie, who had expected curtained windows, dark-paneled walls, tall bookcases laden with hundred-pound tomes, and framed certificates on the walls.

  After seating himself on the business side of his desk, Dr. Hagendorf smiled at her. “I know Mrs. Quarles can be a handful. It was good of you to come in today, Miss MacTavish.”

  Marjorie considered this statement, examining it carefully for hidden meanings, detected none, and said warily, “She only means the best.”

  He laughed. “You needn’t fear me, Miss MacTavish. I’m not going to trap you into unguarded speech. I couldn’t do that if I wanted to, which I don’t. Anyhow, anything you say here stays here. I won’t tattle to Loretta if you want to unburden yourself. As wonderful a woman as she is, she often fails to take into consideration that other people don’t care to be, or are unable to be, as open and free-wheeling as she is.”

  Her defenses zoomed up, although he sounded as if he meant what he said. Still, Marjorie deemed it prudent merely to nod.

  Dr. Hagendorf, clearly sensing her uneasiness, gentled his smile. “Would you prefer to remain in that chair during our session, Miss MacTavish? We have a couch, if you’d rather lie down. Sometimes it helps to relax people if they lie down.”

  It would take more than a couch to calm her down. She also didn’t know which option to choose.

  Again understanding her trepidation, Dr. Hagendorf explained more fully. “If you want to, you can sit right there, and I’ll sit right here, and we can chat. If you’d feel more comfortable with me out of the way, you can lie on the couch, and I’ll take that chair.” He pointed to a chair that would be out of Marjorie’s sight if she lay on the couch.

  She pondered her choices. She didn’t want to talk about the ocean or that horrid night or Leonard with this man watching her. On the other hand, she’d feel uncomfortable with him sitting there, just out of her sight. She’d keep wondering if he was going to pounce.

  Idiot, she scolded herself. The man’s na a panther. Besides which, if Loretta could be believed, he only wanted to help her. She sighed deeply, inducing Dr. Hagendorf to smile again, this time in understanding.

  “Take your time, Miss MacTavish. In spite of what Mrs. Quarles might have told you, I don’t bite.”

  Marjorie actually smiled at that. She made her decision. On the off chance that this appointment actually might be of benefit to her, she thought she’d be more comfortable if she couldn’t see the doctor. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “That’s fine. Just make yourself comfortable.”

  As if she could ever do that. Nevertheless, Marjorie arranged herself modestly on the couch. In anticipation of something like this, she’d worn a shirtwaist and a comfortable, loose skirt that she arranged neatly around the ankles of her high-topped shoes. She had ever been a modest woman.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your background, Miss MacTavish. Take your time.”

  Marjorie hesitated, then began slowly. Although she hadn’t intended to spill her guts, once she got started, her narrative gained momentum. For the first time since she arrived in the United States, she told someone about her poverty-stricken beginnings, her family, and her early years. She’d never even told Loretta about her childhood in Glasgow.

  “We were vurra poor,” she said softly, recalling her work-worn parents, who’d been beaten down by life before she was even born. “And we ate mainly cabbages and tatties.”

  The sound of own voice lulled her strangely. She couldn’t recall ever talking so much at one time. By the time she’d talked Dr. Hagendorf on-board Titanic, she didn’t think she could stop if she wanted to. But by that time, she didn’t want to. It seemed to her as if for years, her life had bottled up behind her. She’d blocked so much for so long that, once she began telling it, everything just spewed out.

  When she arrived at the night of April 14 and the morning of April 15, 1912, she started crying, thereby humiliating herself totally. Still, she couldn’t stop talking. “Och, it was turrible. Turrible.” And, for the first time since the tragedy, she told someone about Leonard.

  All this time, Dr. Hagendorf hadn’t said a word. He didn’t even offer her a “Hmm” or an “Mmm.” When Marjorie’s tale trickled to an end, however, he produced a clean white handkerchief. “Here, Miss MacTavish. You probably need this.”

  “Th-thank you,” she sniffled, embarrassed to death. “I dinna know what came over me.”

  “Please don’t be embarrassed,” said Dr. Hagendorf soothingly. “You’ve endured a good deal. It’s time you let it out.”

  Mopping her tears and still feeling like an ass, Marjorie muttered, “Ye think so?”

  Dr. Hagendorf chuckled. “It’s been my experience that people who keep their woes stuffed tightly inside themselves suffer more than people who share them with others.”

  “Like Loretta.”

  He laughed again. “You don’t have to go that far. It’s perfectly fine for a person to share his or her sorrow. She or he doesn’t necessarily have to make others suffer it as well.”

  Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears when a chuckle came out of her own mouth. “Ye ken her vurra weel, Doctor.”

  “All my life,” he confirmed.

  She blew her nose. “She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “That she is.”

  “And a pain in the neck.”

  “That, too.” The doctor laughed again. “You see, Miss MacTavish, the whole point of my practice is to give people a safe place to share their lives. It often helps to talk about the things that worry us and that we don’t feel comfortable telling our friends about.”

  That actually made sense to Marjorie. Pushing herself up, she swung her feet around and planted them on the plush carpet. Shyly, she glanced at the doctor, who still sat in the chair, smiling gently. “Well?” she said, half defiantly. “What now?”

  He got up from his chair and took her arm, helping her to rise and make her way to the chair. “That’s up to you, Miss MacTavish.” He ges
tured for her to resume her seat before his desk, and he sat on the other side once more.

  She gave him a rueful smile, still dabbing at her leaky eyes. “Ye mean you’re not going to tell me what to do with myself?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not able to do that. Only you can decide how to live your life. I did notice while you were speaking about things that, along with great struggle, poverty, and sorrow, you often seem to have turned to song as a means of brightening your life and easing your suffering.”

  “I have?” Marjorie blinked at the man, startled. When she’d heard him say, “turned to,” she’d anticipated the word “church,” or perhaps “religion,” to pop out next. And, while Marjorie considered herself an upstanding Christian woman, she didn’t really want to spend her days decorating the altar and pining for the minister like so many elderly spinsters she’d met over the years.

  He shrugged. “You spoke of singing more than of anything else, other than of trying to better yourself—which, by the way, you seem to have done admirably.”

  Shy all at once, Marjorie murmured something inaudible.

  The doctor went on. “You’re not alone, you know. Often people who are forced to endure hard lives cling to some form of artistic expression to give them relief from the difficult world. You mentioned playing the piano and singing time and again. It seemed to me that you turn to music in your times of struggle. You’re fortunate to have been born with a natural talent, and you were wise to develop it.”

  “Oh.” Marjorie thought about it, and came to the conclusion that the doctor might actually have a point. “Ye mean, like I sing now in the choir at church?”

  “Exactly. And you sang in the chapel chorus aboard various ships when you were a stewardess.” He grinned. “I got the impression it’s the music, and not the religious aspects, that mean the most to you.”

  She felt herself flush. “Aye. You may be right.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Religious feeling is fine, but I’ve come to the conclusion that not all of us respond as much to sermons as we do to hymns.” He chuckled. “I believe John Wesley came to that decision, too, some years back.”

  In spite of this reference to the Methodist Church, which Marjorie didn’t particularly care for, a sense of confirmation settled on her heart. He understood. This young, bespectacled fellow whom she’d never met before, understood. How astonishing. She murmured, “Aye, that’s so.”

  “You might find that, as you conquer your grief for Mr. Fleming—and don’t worry about what Mrs. Quarles tells you. You have every right to grieve—you might consider music as a device to expand your world.”

  Marjorie had never told Loretta about Leonard. Leonard was too precious to share—or so she’d always thought. She wasn’t sure any longer. She repeated in almost a whisper, “Expand my world.”

  “Exactly. I understand that Mrs. Quarles is a delightful person and a generous employer, but I also sense that you might like to create more of a life for yourself, away from the Quarleses.”

  Amazed by how precisely Dr. Hagendorf had hit the nail’s head, Marjorie actually jumped slightly in her chair. “You’re right!” she exclaimed, then pressed a hand over her mouth, embarrassed by having spoken so loudly. Then she admitted, “But I’m so afraid of new things, Doctor. So fleefu’. It really is a flaw, although I keep telling Loretta it isn’t.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s afraid of trying new things, Miss MacTavish.”

  Although she knew that already, hearing the respected Dr. Hagendorf say so made Marjorie feel slightly better. “D’ye think so?”

  “Absolutely. Often a patient will come to me complaining that, while he or she wants or needs to do something, he or she is afraid to do it. Do you know what I advise them to do in that case?”

  She shook her head.

  “I advise them to do whatever it is, even though they have to do it scared.”

  She blinked at him.

  “There’s no law on earth or in heaven that mandates a person feel comfortable when he or she tackles a new behavior for the first time, Miss MacTavish. You’ve heard the expression, ‘practice makes perfect’?”

  He lifted an eyebrow, and Marjorie nodded.

  “Well, it’s true of human behavior, too. Practice is usually what it takes to ease a person’s nervousness if he or she is experimenting with something new. If you begin in a small way, you can work your way up to bigger things and, while you might feel uncomfortable for a some time, you’ll avoid absolute panic along the way.”

  “What a novel notion!”

  “Not really. We don’t expect babies to start out running, do we? They have to learn how to turn over, crawl and toddle first. It’s the same principle.”

  “My goodness.” A crack in the wall keeping her from a whole new world suddenly appeared to Marjorie. It was a small crack in a formidable wall, to be sure, but Dr. Hagendorf seemed to have faith in her. That meant a lot to Marjorie.

  The doctor grinned. “I think you’ll be fine, Miss MacTavish. Don’t let Mrs. Quarles worry you with her chatter about neuroses and phobias. You’re firmly grounded and are a proven survivor. I trust that one day, you’ll find the happiness you deserve.”

  Marjorie felt her cheeks heat up. “Thank you.” She’d never been complimented so effectively before. She honestly believed Dr. Hagendorf. Astounding.

  # # #

  That night, unexpectedly buoyed up by her visit with Dr. Hagendorf, and eager to escape Loretta’s constant “I told you so’s”, Marjorie put on her hat and coat and prepared to walk the few blocks to the Columbus Avenue Presbyterian Church, where she’d been actively involved in the choir almost ever since she moved to San Francisco. Dr. Hagendorf’s comments about herself and music had rung true in her mind and heart, and she’d decided to do something about it.

  “No, you can’t come with me, Loretta Quarles!” she said in response to Loretta’s question. “Ye mun stay home and take care of the wee ones!” Marjorie didn’t think she’d ever come to grips with the way Loretta paraded her contempt for convention all the time.

  “Good idea,” grumbled Loretta’s husband, the longsuffering and plain-spoken Captain (now retired) Malachai Quarles. “Shut up and let the woman do something by herself for once, Loretta, will you?”

  “Fiddlesticks,” said Loretta grumpily. “You’re both against me.”

  Malachai rolled his eyes.

  Marjorie said, “Codswallop. Ye mun take care of yourself, and that’s that.”

  “I wish I could sing,” Loretta said plaintively. “I’d try out for the opera with you.”

  “I wish you could, too,” Marjorie said truthfully. “But ye canna. Now go sit down, for pity’s sake!” It worried her, the way Loretta tried to do everything she’d always done, as if she wasn’t huge as a house and about ready to give birth.

  “Do you want Peavey to walk you to the church?” Malachai asked.

  Marjorie eyed Derrick Peavey, the man in question, with misgiving. Peavey had been a good sailor, according to Captain Quarles, and he now worked for the Quarleses as some sort of house servant or footman. He was a nice man, but he was about two quarts short of a gallon, and Marjorie couldn’t see what earthly good he could be to her. For one thing, he was constantly blaming the world’s ills on the Moors’ invasion of Spain a thousand or so years ago.

  Still, he was a kind and gentle fellow, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Therefore, she smiled at him when she spoke. “No, thank you. I shall be fine.” She was pretty sure Peavey was relieved, although he’d never say anything to that end. He sighed as he sat on a chair in a corner of the library, and his countenance lost its worried look.

  With a grin, Malachai said, “Right. Then have a good time.”

  “I wish I could see your audition. I’m sure you’ll get the role of Mabel,” said Loretta.

  “Pish-tosh,” muttered Marjorie.

  With a laugh, Loretta said, “That’s the wrong opera. Pish-Tosh is in The Mi
kado.”

  “You know what I mean.” Marjorie grinned in her turn. But, honestly. Loretta was being silly. Mabel was the lead role in the opera, for heaven’s sake, and Marjorie had no aspirations in that direction.

  Relief swept over her when she left Loretta and Malachai’s lovely mansion on Russian Hill. The night was fine, and Marjorie felt more lighthearted than she’d felt in, literally, years.

  Funny how merely talking had eased her mental burdens. She hated to admit that Loretta had been right. But Marjorie was, above anything, a fair person, and she’d thanked Loretta for forcing her onto the alienist’s couch. She’d been suffering the results of her thanks ever since, but she didn’t mind too much Loretta’s constant self-congratulations. Still, it was pleasant to be on her own this evening.

  Marjorie loved her church. It was a pretty building, and it reminded her somewhat of the church she’d attended in Edinburgh, when she’d worked as a clerk in a department store and taken a type-writing class at the YWCA. The Columbus Avenue Presbyterian Church, like so many buildings in San Francisco, had been reconstructed after the catastrophic 1906 earthquake. She felt comfortable in her church; more comfortable than she felt anywhere else in San Francisco, except Loretta’s house.

  Truth to tell, Marjorie found the United States too large and confusing for her taste. The society in which she’d grown up had been in existence for centuries, and its rules had been set down in . . . well, who knew? Antiquity, certainly. And if her society’s existence hadn’t always been stable, Marjorie at least understood it. She felt wobbly in San Francisco, as if she couldn’t gain a firm foothold anywhere.

  Lately, though, she’d been itching internally. It was as if, frightened as she was of the strange new world she’d entered, she was yet stifled and confined in her very circumscribed life. Something in her was ready to emerge. Actually, it felt more as if it were about to erupt, like a volcano.

  Marjorie had realized recently that, in truth, she’d been living not merely with Loretta, but through her. Loretta wasn’t shy and retiring, like Marjorie. She met life head-on and battered it into submission, or tried to. It was a quality Marjorie both admired and decried. As Loretta’s secretary, she was required to tag along when Loretta attended, for example, suffrage rallies and unionization meetings.